Down Came a Blackbird
by sugar.coated
Summary: "can I scream?" So many people wants to be something special, she only wants to be herself. A angsty insane lock-up fic. Yay.


Down Came a Blackbird  
  
by sugar.coated  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*can I scream?*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
So many people are fascinated by what is real.  
  
She had never understood that. Reality exists independent of human beings. It has no need of them. Art on the other hand must be created. She paints a lot when they let her.  
  
She marvels at the different colors, covers paper after paper with pale watery pictures. Rainbows, cats, trees, people. All manners of things. It's the people she paints the most. She can't remember anything, but the people she portraits are so familiar it hurts. She's fastening pieces of herself on paper; people with kind faces, shy smiles, torn hearts.  
  
They say she looks happy when she paints. Maybe she is happy, she doesn't really know what the word means. Only faintly remembers moments when she was free, nothing could restrain her. Sitting in the grass talking about insignificant things. Maybe that was happiness. Remembers time spent with the people in her pictures, the feeling of sun on her skin. Yes, that was happiness.  
  
The room is big and bright, contradicting the horrors taking place in the shadows just a short distance away. Massive windows show the world they've all been snatched from, the world that doesn't belong to them anymore. There are lots of people like her in this place. All broken, scarred, empty shells of their former beings. She never talks to them, she's got nothing to say.  
  
The pale boy with the empty eyes is different from the rest. He's been here a long time, longer than most. He's a survivor, unintentionally, they keep him alive. He only paints black on his papers. She studies the boy with slight recognition. The boy studies her. Maybe they knew each other in a different life.  
  
She tries to remember what that life might have been like but the memory hasn't stuck. Everything is so foggy. It's hard to think and she looses pieces of herself in the corners. They put drugs in the food, the boy tells her. He doesn't eat and his pale skin is stretched painfully tight over the bones.  
  
She tells the boy magnificent fairytales about princes and princesses, dragons and heroes, witches and fairy godmothers. Tells about times long gone, when nothing seemed dangerous, the world didn't matter, barely even existed. The boy laughs at her insanity and looks for sharp objects to paint his wrists red.  
  
She throws herself into the walls, longing to defy the laws of science as she dreams about once doing. The bruises paint her body, the doctors cut her hair and she bites her nails to the bone. She's not sane, but she's saner than the boy is and that comforts her.  
  
So many people wants to be something special, she only wants to be herself. It's just that she can't remember who that is. She knows she's different, she knows she's wrong, she knows she's a lower form of being than the doctors and the nurses, she just can't remember in what way.  
  
She looses more of herself ever day. That's the danger of creation. If you put in too much of yourself you may have nothing left.  
  
She paints when they let her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
the end  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Authors Ramblings: Whee! Insanity! Eh. I got the inspiration for this from listening to an amazingly boring speech about Ghandi way back when I wrote "Suffer the little children". This is sorta the sequel to that story, so if you haven't read it already, go do so now!  
  
I'd really appreciate it if you'd tell me what you think of this! Please? It doesn't take that much of your time. Was anyone able to figure out who the girl was?  
  
This is dedicated to Chiru! Because she's awesome and stuff and is now posting my stories at her page "In the Blink of an Eye" which you can find at this address:  
  
http://www.angelfire.com/rebellion/pietro/v3.0.html  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: I own . . . an electric guitar. And that's pretty much it. I don't own X-Men or anything associated with X-Men or anything that would mean that I'd actually have money.  
  
Distribution: If ya want it, ya can have it. Just keep my name with it and let me know where it ends up. 


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